Skin to Skin, Heart to Heart

and when you speak,
I feel the world
come alive
under your skin,
throbbing
with the waves
that rise and fall
with my skin,
as I drop into
the silence
of uncharted depths,
drawing me through
their smudged creases,
now spiralling,
free falling,
into the abyss
of a love
that can be felt
only skin to skin,
heart to heart.

How would you hold a flower?

how would you hold a flower?
would you hold her
with the heaviness of awe
lining your liquid eyes,
still searching to pour or fill
what can never be held?
or would you hold her
with the impersonal flourish
of a by-stander
unwilling to die
into her sensuous folds?
or would you hold her
with the strange perfume
of a mystery
that cannot be solved
but only lived
through the gentlest touch
of your crushed heart?
how would you hold a flower?
how would you hold her
with your heart?

Drought

"What do you grow?"
I softly asked,
meeting your eyes
halfway
in the weary space
between our souls.

"There is no water"
"What can I grow?"
you said,
swallowing
a lump in your throat,
as I swallowed mine.

Four eyes
brimming with water,
flooding hearts,
drowning souls;
yet just not enough,
to sprinkle, sow or grow.